


Feel Invincible

by Anarhichas



Category: The Hour
Genre: Alternative 2x06, Gangbang, M/M, POV of rapist, Rape, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarhichas/pseuds/Anarhichas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s with more than just feet and fists that they break Freddie Lyon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel Invincible

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning!** This fic is told from the POV of Trevor, a fascist and one of the rapists, and contains some extreme sexist and racist beliefs.
> 
> Written with no beta. Concrit more than welcome.

Trevor isn't stupid, or at least, not entirely stupid – so the moment Mr Cilenti's whore appears on the screen and Mr Lyon's bloodied face closes into some nameless expression, he realises that something has changed.

Nothing happens for a long moment; the sound of the television is the only noise. That and the rasping breath of Mr Lyon, and as Trevor looks he sees the man tremble. His expression is closer now to recognisable, familiar fear, the first real fear he’s shown yet. They’re waiting for something – Norman and Mr Cilenti seem to be listening to the news, though he doesn’t know why, and Trevor waits with them despite his body itching with anticipation, with a new energy that hadn’t been there before.

The moment ends when Lyon tries to make a run for it and Trevor grabs him and smashes him bodily against the wall. He’s acting on reflex, not thinking, not needing to, and as Norman punches Lyon in the gut repeatedly the rush is glorious.

Mr Cilenti brushes them aside like they’re nothing. He grips Lyon by the neck, fingers digging deep into the soft, blood smeared flesh, and as Lyon chokes, struggles and then crumples he follows him down. It’s only when Trevor starts to wonder with odd detachment whether he’s going to strangle Lyon to death right there and then that Mr Cilenti lets go. He puts a knee to the slumped Lyon’s groin instead, causing him to make a noise like a crying dog. Mr Cilenti only grinds down harder. He’s red in the face and breathing heavily through bared, angry teeth.

“Bastard – thought you’d steal my whore, did you?” he snarls. Lyon doesn’t reply – can’t reply, not with his mouth stretched open in soundless agony, and Trevor can’t help a small wince in sympathy, his first in a long time. He can’t take his eyes away. “How about you replace her, then? Hm? Skinny bitch.”

Trevor doesn’t understand, though admittedly he’s not paying much attention to the words. Lyon must have, however, because his face is a glimpse of raw terror before he’s dragged up and slammed over the wooden table in the middle of the room. He’s held there, bent at the waist and face down, by a hand over his neck. His struggles are slowed and then stopped by a repeated fist to the kidney. The table is short enough that his head tilts off the other side and he grip the edge as well as he can with broken fingers, whole body heaving with shallow breaths. He kicks out his legs but with Mr Cilenti standing between them it does nothing.

Lyon’s voice is as useless as his fingers, Trevor realises as he stands there, watching the scene play out in front of him as if he is sitting in the theatre. Lyon’s previous grunts and muffled shouts are now scratched, broken cries, words that aren’t emerging from a crushed throat even if he wanted them to. He is shaking his head as his suit jacket is pulled off and tossed to the floor. There is a tear in his shirt, which is coloured with spots and trails of blood.

When Mr Cilenti reaches around to unbuckle and pull off Lyon’s belt Trevor is hit by the memory of his own beatings he’d earned as a boy. It lasts only the briefest of seconds before the belt is cast to the floor and Lyon’s trousers and underwear are pulled down, and Trevor finally realises what’s about to happen.

He is struck by the understanding, feeling both suddenly uneasy and fascinated. Morbid curiosity flares under his skin and he resists the urge to move closer, to pull Lyon’s head up by the hair to see the expression on his blood slicked face.

“No, you don’t do this,” Lyon gasps even as he lifts his own head to look Trevor in the eye. “Trevor, please.” Trevor doesn’t move but to lick his dry lips. The plea is just noise. It barely registers. He realises that he hates Mr Lyon, hates his arrogance and the way he looks down on and sneers at him but not at the niggers, the filthy immigrants, the ones who deserve it. He hates how he was invited onto the television just to be mocked. It is nothing but gratifying to see the misplaced superiority stripped away and Trevor’s unease disappears as quickly as it came. His blood is pounding in his ears as Lyon dips his head to start struggling again, earning Mr Cilenti’s fists to his lower back. He doesn’t stop fighting though, not this time, pushing the table away with his arms, rocking enough that he’s almost falling to the floor.

Mr Cilenti picks him up by the back of his shirt and slams him down hard. Lyon cries out in pain, a brief, winded noise. Mr Cilenti doesn’t pause before he does it again, and again. When Lyon stops moving, finally, Mr Cilenti tilts his head down and spits, thumbing the saliva into his arsehole.

Trevor can’t tear his eyes away. He knows men who have raped girls – he’s laughed along with them over their stories. He has raped girls, perhaps, not that the bitches hadn’t asked for it.

He has never thought of men being raped before. It is, as he watches Lyon start to cry in earnest as more spit is applied, strangely incomprehensible. But then Mr Cilenti pulls out his cock, stroking it despite how hard it is already, and forces his way in. He only manages a couple of inches – the spit isn’t enough, it looks painfully tight, but Trevor can feel his own erection growing just from the sight of it. It is enthralling, watching Mr Cilenti start to jerk his hips back and forth, holding the sobbing Lyon down by his narrow waist.

He doesn’t move consciously but finds himself in front of Lyon’s bowed, trembling head none the less. There’s blood roaring in his ears and the world seems shaper, more real than before. He feels invincible as he grasps Lyon’s chin and pulls it up, forcing his neck to arch. They meet eyes.

Lyon’s face is pale under the red, tears cleaning tracks across his cheeks. His eyelashes are clumped into spikes and he mouths soundless words around juddering sobs and whimpers. He looks pathetic – an entirely different man from the one in front of the cameras, from the one who lives in Notting Hill.

“No fancy words now, Mr Lyon?” Trevor says, because he can, because the exhilaration has taken over and he never wants this to end. He opens his own trousers and doesn’t even need to use his hand, because he’s more than hard enough already.

“Bite,” he says, words a rush of breathless, mindless threats, “and I’ll find your French whore, and I’ll fuck her ‘til she’s screaming and her filthy cunt bleeds –” then his words are lost as he pushes into Lyon’s mouth as deep as he can, holding his wrists tight as they fight against him. His thrusts are hard, fast and lacking rhythm, and Lyon does little other than choke, pushed forwards again and again as Mr Cilenti takes him up the arse, but for Trevor it’s enough to drive him stupid from the sheer pleasure. Heat pools in his belly and the friction is glorious. He feels like a god.

It doesn’t take long before his orgasm tears through him and he comes in Lyon’s slack mouth, shuddering, heady pulses. He may have been embarrassed at how quickly he got off but he’s still riding the pleasure like a high and doesn’t mind when Norman pushes him away. Instead he wipes and tucks himself into his trousers, breathing heavily. Mr Cilenti is still going. His cock is smeared red and he’s picked up pace and rhythm, long, angry thrusts to match the distorted fury on his face. Trevor doesn’t know how he can be so angry while doing something so exhilarating.

In the background the television is still playing. Norman pulls Lyon’s head up by the hair; Lyon is dribbling saliva and ejaculate and he sobs with his eyes tight shut. “Please,” he whispers, thick and barely audible. “Please.” Norman hits him across the face in a backhand that cracks his head to the side and reopens the forming scabs. Somewhere alone the line his nose must have got broken – it’s crooked and bleeding.

As he stands back and watches Norman and Mr Cilenti, with Lyon in between them, Trevor can’t help but grin. The blood is still pumping through him fast. It feels like he’s fought someone and won, or ran a race and came first. He feels like there isn’t anything he can’t do – invincible. Mr Cilenti is done for, what with his name on the news like that, but Norman isn’t, and Trevor is Norman’s man.

Mr Cilenti finishes with a stuttered groan that is almost obscene. When he pulls out he turns to wipe himself off with a handkerchief he tugs from a pocket. Trevor is too busy watching Norman as he simultaneously pushes Lyon to the side and kicks the table away, forcing the now crumpled Lyon to kneel in front of him on legs that don’t seem to be working. Norman ignores the hands grasping at his ankles, instead grabbing the back of Lyon’s head and starting to thrust into his mouth with renewed force. The gagging and pained choking that it causes is as disgusting as it is enthralling.

Norman finishes soon after with stifled, guttural moans as he comes down Lyon’s throat, hand still gripping the back of his head tight enough to whiten his knuckles. When he lets go Lyon slumps bodily to the floor, panting. He’s still crying, shoulders shaking and face down. Then he vomits, throwing up sticky, thick fluid, and with his legs splayed as if broken and arms barely holding his head up, let alone the rest of his body, he looks like an animal. Like a street dog, just before it gives up and dies.

Mr Cilenti approaches and crouches down beside him. He looks composed, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour or more torturing then raping a man.

Lyon looks up at him. His face is trembling as he says something Trevor cannot hear.

“What was that?” Mr Cilenti asks quietly as he rests a hand on the top of Lyon’s head.

“Money –“ Lyon says. His breathing is stammered, tongue thick. “Money –“

Mr Cilenti smashes his head against the floor. Then he raises his fist and beats it to the side of Lyon’s face, again and again. Blood spatters. His snarl has returned, sheer rage. It only retreats when Lyon falls utterly still.


End file.
